The Falling of Sam Winchester
by all hallows eve
Summary: Sam insisted he was going to turn dark side.  That he was going to be evil and kill people.  Dean always told him he was wrong.  Only one brother could be right...
1. Missing Sam

_disclaimer: not this time... i'm just borrowing them for a while... you can have them back later._

_a/n: this story is gonna be kind of a long story. right now i have 24 pages of it writen, and this chapter is only 3 of those pages-- not bad huh? the title pretty much explains what the whole story is about, so i'm not going to get into that. i do hope you enjoy it, and any comments would be awesome, though i'm not going to be one of those authors begging and pleading for reviews. enjoy!_

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_The Falling of Sam Winchester_

"Sammy, if Bo--"

"_Don't_ call me Sammy!" Sam barked, "Honestly Dean, how many times do I have to tell you? A child could figure it out!"

"Sam, you're _acting_ like a child at this moment, now will you just shut up and fricken listen to me!" Dean shot back just as fiercely, "If Bobby said not to go stick our nose into this case, then we don't."

"Since when the hell do you care what Bobby says?" Sam accused, "Since Dad died? Because you sure as hell didn't care what was going on with the man before."

"Sam just cool it, alright?" Dean tried to force his voice calm, "I mean, ever since we got back from Dillinger, you've been acting..."

"What?" the anger was clear in Sam's voice, "Been acting like what Dean? Different? That's because I _am_--"

"No!" following most of their conversation, Dean didn't let the sentence be finished, "I swear to God Sam, if you pull your whole destiny thing on me one more time I'm going to make sure you have _no_ destiny."

The Winchester brothers had been having conversations like this more frequently as the weeks went on. Something would go wrong, and Sam would blame it on him turning evil. Dean would argue back that it was a mistake that any hunter could make, and that it wouldn't be given more than a moments thought less than a year ago when no such destiny was known. Before John Winchester darkened their world with his words. If there was one thing Dean hated the man for it was for whispering his warning. If there was one thing Dean hated himself for, it was repeating it to Sam.

So many times Sam would become defensive, begging it seemed, to be accused of turning to the dark side. And just as many times Dean would argue back that he wasn't, and further more, he wouldn't let him. Now, however, Dean was getting sick of the argument.

"Sam, you did nothing wrong," Dean's words came out finalized, "The demon got away; it happens."

"Not to me," Sam shook his head, "I should have stopped it."

"Sam, you were flung across the room, and nearly fell three stories out of the window!" Dean argued back, "What the hell _could_ you have done?"

Instead of replying Sam walked hotly out of the hotel room.

"Sam!" Dean tried feebly to call after him to no avail.

Quickly two choices ran through the older brothers head. He could go after Sam, try and straighten him out, and maybe convince him to a game of pool at the local bar. Or he could let him blow off steam in his own way. The anger inside Dean led to the latter, and he went into the shower to try and calm himself down. He loved his brother like any sibling did, but Sam could cause him to wish himself an only child sometimes. Just so he could tell Sam what he really thought.

Dean Winchester was rarely one to take a long shower, but nearly an hour later, as he opened the door; stem pillowing out behind him, he was glad he did. He felt much calmer, and was prepared to apologize to Sam for the harsh words exchanged. What he didn't expect, was a still empty room.

"What time is it?" Dean muttered to himself, walking to his bag with only a pair of sleep pants on.

His suspicions of a late hour were confirmed as he noted the time on his watch as being past midnight. The brothers had an unspoken rule that if either of them was going to be separated from the other for later than midnight, they'd call. A small flicker of worry came to the pit of Dean's stomach as he sat on the bed and reached for his phone. He hesitated a moment over the name 'Sam', wondering if it was wise to call his brother when his mood was far from good. The younger Winchester could have easily lost track of time if he went to the bar or even, Dean smirked, found a girl. Still, the time was late, and the rule was rarely broken unless one of them was in trouble.

The small feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach rose to a full on panic as, after half a dozen rings, he got nothing but Sam's voicemail, "Sammy where the hell are you?"

The sentence was short and simple. Any more and Dean feared he might look over protective; a trait he carried, but scarcely cared to show on his sleeve.

Three more messages were left, and seven times Dean simply hung up, before four in the morning rolled around. Long since had Dean replaced his relaxed sleeping clothes with jeans and a simple shirt, and long since had he dropped the macho brother act. His last message nearly pleading with Sam to just call him back to let him know he was ok. All to no avail. At five, Dean told himself, he would go in search of the missing brother.

"And when I find you," Dean threatened to the empty room, "I'm going to kick your ass."

Unless, he added internally, someone already had.

Time, in Dean's opinion, had never passed slower. He sat on the bed, eying the door, waiting, and even praying that it would open and Sam would walk through it. Sure he'd be pissed as hell, and probably tear Sam a new one, but he'd also have his Sam back in his sight. When the small letters on his phone read 5:01am, Dean got up in a huff. His hands were shaking as he told himself how stupid it was to worry. Sam was a grown man, and had every right to stay out all night; hell, he could do whatever he wanted. But to not answer his phone or say where he was going was the reason that Dean grabbed his car keys and was ready to scour the small town they'd decided to stop in just outside of Dillinger.

Dean slipped on his dark leather jacket, shoved his phone in his pocket, and reached his hand for the doorknob when the door shot open; missing Dean's face by mere centimeters. Without even a glance towards the man who stood stunned by the doorway Sam strode in and dropped a small notebook on the table near a dirty window.

"I found out some stuff that we can look in to today," Sam immediately began, "Apparently there's this lady that's lived in Surrgate for, like, sixty years and knew the Walsh family pretty good and--"

"Wait a second," Dean finally found his voice as he closed the door firmly with a loud 'thud'.

It was then that Sam turned around to face Dean and noticed the mixture of emotions plastered on the elder hunters face. Sam had no more looked at the stunned face then he burst out laughing.

"Gezz Dean, you look like crap."

"Are you fricken kidding me!" Dean yelled out; sure that the neighbors on either side of their room just got a nasty five in the morning wake-up call.

Sam looked blankly at his brother, "What?"

"_What_?" Dean mocked before raising his voice again, "You scared the crap out of me Sam! Where the hell is your phone?"

"Here," Sam pulled it out of his pocket and looked down at it, "Oh," he grinned, "I guess I forgot to turn it on."

"You--" Dean knew he would be mad if the current circumstances happened, but he didn't think he would be _this_ mad, "How could-- Sam, I swear..."

"Want to try a full sentence there Dean?" Sam joked.

Dean stared at Sam, his eyes flashing more anger than Sam had ever seen before, "Don't _ever_ do that again Sam."

Dean left a speechless Sam in the silenced room as he again retreated for the bathroom. The shower was shorter this time as the adrenaline which had been pulsing through his body slowly faded away, and he became tired and exhausted both physically and emotionally. Stepping out into the less than large sleeping area of the forty-five dollar a night hotel, Dean spotted Sam fast asleep in bed. A small light between the beds was on and Dean quietly got into his bed. For a fleeting moment he considered making a loud noise to rouse his slumbering sibling, but decided against it. Sam would be mad enough at him when he woke him early the next morning to hit the road. With those last thoughts floating through his head, Dean laid down to sleep a well earned slumber.

If Dean had given any thought to what Sam was speaking of when he came in at just past five, or had listened to his words in any way, he may not have slept so well. The older brother might have noticed that not only had Sam disappeared for over five hours, but he'd also started to investigate a new case. The very case that Bobby Singer told them to stay away from.

_...to be continued..._


	2. The Walsh House

_disclaimer: uh-uh_

_a/n: hey all people that are reading this story. umm, this chapter has a lot of explaining in it-- a lot of description and backstory. like i said, this is going to be a fairly long story, and so i need to draw you in to it, and make sure you'll understand clues and things like that. just keep that in mind as you read this-- chapter two... enjoy!_

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Dean rolled over and mumbled at the bright light. The warmth of the light gave clue that it was the sun shinning in through the window situated between the beds, and Dean smiled as his dream replayed in his semiconscious state. A beautiful woman, the Jamaican beach, margaritas and… Sam? Sam! 

Dean shot up in bed and looked around. The bed beside him was empty, and the smell of recently brewed coffee in their half kitchen gave indication that not too long ago the bed wasn't as unoccupied. His eyes feeling they got far less sleep than the rest of his body, Dean struggled to find his watch and read the time; a quarter after ten. A new set of panic was just about to set in again as he glanced at the empty bed beside him, when the sound of the shower entered his ears. To this a soft sigh of relief came from Dean.

"Coffee," instead the elder Winchester mumbled the word any person could utter after a mere five hours of sleep.

The warm, satisfying liquid was just massaging its way down Dean's throat when Sam walked out of the bathroom; water dripping from his less than combed hair.

"Hey Dean," Sam spoke, eying his brother and seeing what type of reaction he'd get.

"Hey," Dean responded, himself not sure what types of feelings he harbored towards his little brother, "Leave any hot water?"

"Some," Sam joked.

The exchange of conversation was small and experimental, but in it Dean realized that the best bet for the previous nights events were to forgive and forget. Dean knew, at some point in the future, he'd do something that would piss off Sam, and figured he now had a get out of jail free card. Sam moved over and sat at the small table, and, after a moment, grabbed the notebook.

"So," Sam paused, "Did you get a chance to look at this?"

Dean sat across from his brother; cup of coffee still in hand, "I just woke up. What is it?"

"It's what I was talking about last night," Sam responded, trying to jog his brothers memory.

Dean struggled to think about anything Sam had said less than six hours earlier. The older brother had to admit, he'd been somewhat preoccupied by the anger that was now threatening to creep back up in him. Instead of admitting this, however, Dean settled for leaving a lingering silence in the conversation.

Sam handed Dean the book, "It's what I found out last night about the case in Surrgate."

The name immediately rang a bell, "Dude, tell me you're not talking about the Walsh family and the case that Bobby told us _not_ to go digging into."

Sam refused to make eye contact with Dean, but instead became deeply involved with fingering the rings on the scribbler.

"Sam!" Dean barked.

"_Yes_, ok?" Sam looked up, "I thought maybe if I could prove to you that sometimes _I_ can be right too that you'd give me a little more benefit of the doubt sometimes."

Dean pause, not sure what to make of what his brother just told him, "Sam… where did that come from?"

It was Sam's turn to wait on a response, "I don't know."

Dean didn't know whether it was that he felt sorry for Sam, or because he didn't want to argue, but he found himself reaching over and taking the notebook. The previous morning the brothers had been reading through the local newspaper; a ritual they did at every place they stopped at in a slim hope of finding something interesting. That morning, however, showed their efforts sometimes paid off as Dean read the headline of 'Destruction of Walsh Home in Surrgate Postponed Due to Discovered Body'. The large headline was posted above a just as large picture of an old looking, three story brick building.

The article had little information on the background of the house, just stating that the demolition, which was to be happening that week, had been put on hold when one of the workers found a partially decomposed body in the attic. It was when Sam had typed in for information on the Walsh house in his laptop that they got the full story. The home was built in 1897 for an Adam Walsh. The first tragedy happened two years later when his four year old daughter tumbled out of a third story window in a horrific accident one summer evening. 1919 saw the second ill fated day when a fire broke out in the kitchen further killing Adam Walsh's wife and ten year old boy. Still, two girls and three boys joined Adam in living many more uneventful years. The eldest son; Elliot Walsh, married in 1935 to an Elizabeth Rose; the eldest daughter of the mayor in Surrgate. Things were rough from the beginning as soon after moving into the old Walsh home, Adam Walsh died in his sleep at the age of sixty. The remainder of the Walsh children moved away on their own, and Elliot started a family of his own.

Rumors broke out almost immediately in the small town in the way that Elliot treated his wife; believing her to be nothing more than one of his meager possessions. The forties gave them ten children and the rumors soared even more. Elliot was an angry man, and was often seen beating his wife, or calling her cruel names; though the money the Walsh family earned in their name hushed these claims to no more than murmurs in the back of peoples conversations. In 1956 Elizabeth became ill and was forced into the hospital with a sever case of pneumonia. This left Elliot in a state of panic as he began a time of trying to force his children off to anyone who would come near the man that was so greatly feared by now. What remained of Elliot's siblings rarely came to see their nieces and nephews, and though Elliot now began to treat his children the same way he treated his wife, the eldest; fifteen year old Rose Walsh, was too fearful to stand up to the man. Elizabeth returned home in the winter of 1956 and, so it seemed, the atmosphere appeared to calm in the now over half a century old house. Which is why is came as such a shock when the events of June 1st, 1957 came around.

It was said that Elliot hadn't shown up for work for nearly a week in his esteemed position as head of production at the local saw mill. When phoned, he stated simply that the family was going through a spout of illness and he was forced to take care of them. This in itself sent shouts of red flags through the community, and after several tries at contacting the Walsh family on the late spring day of 1957, police were dispatched. What they found was their fears brought to realities. In the attic of the old Walsh home was the murdered bodies of all ten children and of Elizabeth Walsh; each having their throats cleanly sliced to the spinal cord. Upon further investigation they found Elliot Walsh laying at the bottom of a particularly steep staircase; his neck cleanly broken. Many speculations went about as to what could have happened, but most figured that Elliot had murdered his family and then, perhaps, ironically fell to his own death while trying to escape the scene of the crime.

After the gruesome murder, the house was cleaned and quickly sold to a new family; though the standing name of the 'Walsh House' remained. Things began to go bad immediately as any family that moved in was met with tragedy and heartache. By 1971 the house was turned into a museum of history for the town of Surrgate, and sought after by tourists as a house of pain and suffering; urban legends sprouting that whoever stepped foot in the attic would never leave the house. As urban legends went, this one seemed to strike a freakish amount of continuity. The first being in 1976 when a teen boy broke through the boundaries of the third floor and escaped to the attic. It wasn't even known that the teen was missing until his body was found on the ground bellow the back porch and the attic window broken above. He lived only long enough to utter out 'nonsense' about something pushing him out the window before the sixteen year old died from internal injuries. Similar things happened throughout the seventies, whether it was a wandering child, later found suffocated in the attic, or, on one grisly occasion an innocent man found the victim at the bottom of the stairs where Elliot himself was found dead. 1980 found the end of the museum, and the beginning of three years of more tragic accidents by people tempting the fate of the Walsh House. It wasn't until 1983 when everything stopped; the, by that point, infamous Walsh House became nothing but memory of bad luck and a collector of cobwebs.

In the late year of 2005, it was declared by the town of Surrgate that the century old house would be destroyed and replaced, instead, with a duplex. Some of the town argued against this act, and others; many the survivors of the innocent victims of the house, agreed that it should be torn down. It didn't take long for the bill to pass and the plans for the demolition to take place. It was at that time, however, that the bodies began to show up. Not many; only three in the time since, but all of them were the same. Each body had no name, and no missing persons matched them. As well, each corpse seemed have been sitting in the house for some time, and yet the workers went through the place nearly daily.

And thus the Winchester hunters became increasingly interested in the case. Dean didn't give it a second thought, but felt the need to call their family friend; Bobby Singer, to see what he knew of the place. Surely a house with so much tragedy had to of been flagged in the books of the expert hunter. Dean had no more mentioned the name of the town Surrgate, when Bobby warned harshly not to go near the Walsh House with no more information than there was nothing there for them to worry about. The conversation was short, but final; don't go near Surrgate.

And now Dean had in his hands a notebook, showing that his brother was not only willing, but eager to do just that.

"Sam," Dean didn't open the notebook, "I don't know man--"

"Just read it, please," Sam insisted.

Dean opened the book, and read the less than one page of jotted notes. His brother was never one for thoroughness when taking notes from people, and this time was no different. A name: Becky Rose was written at the top, along with a phone number, address and year: 1945. The notes hardly seemed worth all the pleading done by Sam, and Dean looked blankly up at his brother.

"So?" Sam looked expectantly.

"Ok, so I now know who took after Dad's writing abilities," Dean tossed the book on the table, "There's a name, address, phone number and a year Sam. Not exactly a 'Murder She Wrote' explanation."

Sam sighed, "Last night while I was--" he paused to look at Dean, "_out_, I ran across some guy at the local bar. We were chatting and I mentioned that I'd read that the Walsh House was being torn down."

"Subtlety at your best Sammy," Dean commented.

"Yeah well he gave me this name," Sam opened the book and pointed to the paper, "Becky Rose."

"Ok," Dean still wasn't catching on, and wished sincerely that his coffee cup could magically fill up without him having to get up at all.

Sam sighed dramatically, "Becky Rose is Elizabeth Rose's sister. Apparently she had moved away at a young age, but moved _back_ to Surrgate in 1945 when Elizabeth started punching out her kids."

"A way with words Sam," Dean grinned, "But I still don't get how this could help with anything. This lady must be what?-- ninety years old?"

"Eighty-six," Sam supplied.

"Perfect," Dean got up to get himself some more liquid gold, "I think you've been watching the Titanic too much there Sam. People that old rarely remember their names, never mind what the hell happened half a century ago."

"That's not true," Sam gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Dean handed him, "According to this guy she's very much with it still. She owns a small bakery in Surrgate and lives with her daughter Alisa in a small house just off main street."

"So," Dean nodded, "Let me get this straight. You met some random dude at a _bar_, and he told you that some eight-some-odd year old lady not only remembers, but can tell us about some things that happened fifty years ago in a case, let me remind you, that Bobby told us to stay away from? That about it Sherlock Holmes?"

Sam took a long drink from his cup before replying, "Yeah."

Dean ran his hand across his face, "Sam, Bobby said to stay away from that place."

"I know," Sam held out his hand in defense, "And we will stay away from the house. We can just talk to Becky, and if nothing comes of it, I swear I won't push it any further. Bobby said to stay away from the Walsh House, and we will. Becky and Alisa's house is nowhere near the Walsh House."

Dean thought about this a moment before caving, "I swear man, if you pull anything I will leave your ass in Surrgate."

Sam grinned and stood to his feet, "Scouts honor."

"You were never in Scouts," Dean accused as Sam shoved some of his cloths and belongings away in his bags.

"Yeah, but I dated a Brownie once," Sam shot back with a smug look on his face.

"That's horrible Sam," Dean sputtered through his sip of coffee.

Dean followed Sam's movements in gathering up his belongings. He figured the two showers he had the night before more than made up for him lacking one that morning, and instead wanted to get the trip out of the way. The sooner Dean could convince Sam that there was nothing happening in Surrgate and to listen to Bobby's words, the better.

_...to be continued..._


	3. Becky's Story

_disclaimer: if they were mine i wouldn't have to think of ways to say they weren't_

_a/n: here it is-- chapter three. it's longer than the other chapters because when i wrote this, i wrote it not thinking of cutting it up into chapters, and so the best place to cut it off was at past 3000 words. anyways, this chapter has the first kindda cliffhanger, of what will be many of them. enjoy!_

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"Hi," Dean grinned at the beautiful lady in front of him, "My name is Dean Young and this is Sam Williams."

"Oh hi!" the lady's dark hair washed around her blue eyes as she grinned, "You two must be the researchers from the University."

"Yes Ma'am," Sam nodded.

"Please," she laughed lightly, "Call me Alisa."

"Thank you Alisa," Dean nodded, "So is your Mom home right now."

"Oh yes, she just woke up from her nap, please come in," Alisa held open the door for the brothers.

Dean eyed his brother and mouthed the word 'nap' to which Sam grabbed his jacket and shoved him through the door. Dean almost ran into the back of Alisa Rose as she stood in the foyer of the well kept house.

"I'll be just a minute," she smiled, "I'll help her downstairs. Make yourself at home; the living room is off to the right."

"Thank you," Sam spoke appreciatively.

Dean watched Alisa walk upstairs. She was an older lady; looking to be in her late forties, though she kept herself looking young with a slim, athletic looking body. Her clothing was current and simple as that day she wore a light, flowing turquoise skirt with a white camisole top. Her dark hair flowed neatly down her back in light waves and her poise as she climbed the small amount of stairs gave Dean a sense of respect towards the lady.

"Dean, come on," Sam snapped the elder out of his daze.

Dean followed Sam to the living room and looked around. It was bright and cheery, plastered with flower wallpaper, light peach carpet and beige colored furniture. A long couch sat against one wall with a puffy looking chair sitting on an angle beside it. A coffee table sat in front of the two which gave way to a small twenty inch tv which the brothers guessed was rarely ever on. A well used rocking chair sat by a bay window with lace curtains hanging down either side.

The Winchesters had no more sat down on the couch and taken out their notebooks than something small and brown bounded at them.

"What the--" Dean lifted his feet up in surprise.

Sam, on the other hand, bent down and started cooing over the fluffy haired puppy which had decided to join in on their conversation.

"Ok, nature boy," Dean frowned, "Since when have you liked dogs?"

"Since Billy Corman's one bit you in seventh grade," Sam shot back with a grin.

Dean was about to make a reply when Alisa entered the room, followed by another lady whom he assumed was Becky Rose. It startled Dean to see the older lady's grace and ease in movement. When he'd heard she was eighty-six years old his mind immediately went to an old folks home to the elders whose mind had long since left them nothing but a shell of their younger selves. This lady, however, held the same stance and dignity that her daughter held as she swept into the room in a navy blue skirt and light, white cotton blouse. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun on the top of her head and her makeup was done with such precision that it made Dean wonder how any woman could so such a thing.

"Don't look so shocked son," Becky, obviously had noticed Dean's reflecting look, "Not all people my age are useless."

Dean shot out a sheepish grin, "Sorry Ma'am."

"Oh, that's all right," Becky pulled the rocker over to across from the coffee table and sat down so as she was facing the brothers, "And please, boys, call me Becky. Ma'am makes me sound old."

Sam caught the small wink sent their way and let out a laugh.

"Let me guess," Becky looked back and forth between Sam and Dean, "You're brothers?"

Dean shared a quick, startled look with Sam before speaking, "No Ma'am-- err… Becky. My name is Dean Young and this is my friend Sam Williams. We're history students from the local University."

Becky gave Dean a look that sent a chill up the young hunter's spine, "Very well Dean," she looked at Sam, "And Sam. What it is I can do for you boys this afternoon?"

"We were wondering what you could tell us about the Walsh House," Sam spoke, still petting the small puppy that was now curled up to his leg.

"Oh, the Walsh House," Becky nodded, "I remember that place well. I spent many summers there helping my sister with my nieces and nephews."

Sam began jotting the notes down as Dean questioned the elder lady, "How well did you know Elliot Walsh?"

"Oh I knew him quite well I assure you Dean," Becky insisted, "My sister and I were close, and she told me many things about the man that more than once caused me to want to go to the police. Only at Betty's insistence did I _not _go."

"Betty?" Dean furrowed his eyebrows, "Oh, Elizabeth?" Becky nodded, "What did she tell you?"

"She told me that she couldn't handle it without Elliot around," Becky explained, "Our father was mayor of Surrgate, but that didn't mean we had much money. With six boys and four girls Betty was hardly in any position to be able to raise them on her own. That Elliot treated her harshly but there was nothing my sister could do."

"Couldn't you have someone talk to him?" Sam interjected, "Maybe try and convince him that what he was doing was wrong."

"Oh honey, there was countless people that tried that," Becky laughed at the suggestion, "But that man denied his doings around every corner. Claimed he was a wonder man who never laid a finger on his wife."

"Why didn't _you_ say something?" Dean questioned, "Maybe spoke to your Dad or to Elliot's siblings."

"Oh," Becky's voice dropped, "I could never do that."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

A long silence answered the question and filled up the room. Becky stared seemingly at nothing, lost in deep thought, and immediately Sam regretted asking the question. The silence was broken by the entrance of Alisa; carrying a try with a large jug of lemonade surrounded by three glasses.

"Mom?" Alisa noticed her mothers look, "Mom, are you ok?"

"Oh," Becky turned to her daughter and grinned, "Yes Dear, I'm fine."

Alisa stared suspiciously at her mother; obvious by her stance that she wasn't planning on moving or speaking until she got a better explanation for what she instantly picked up as a lie.

"Really Alisa," Becky insisted, glancing at Sam; the young dog still twinning its way around his legs, "Why don't you take Gold for a walk? He hasn't been out in a while."

"Are you sure?" Alisa placed a hand on her mother's shoulder.

Becky patted it reassuringly, "I'm sure."

"Come on Gold," Alisa bent down and the young Collie puppy ran to her, "Lets go for a walk boy."

Dog in hand, the daughter of the woman in question walked out of the room. The three remaining occupants waited a moment until they heard the front door closed. It was then that a thought occurred to Dean.

"Miss. Rose," he thought carefully of how he was going to word it, "Did-- did Elliot Walsh hurt you as well?"

Sam immediately shot a look at his brother, but on the contrary, Becky smiled.

"You're good Dean. Not many people that were around at the time could figure that out, and here you are nearly fifty years later."

"I'm so sorry," Sam offered what little condolences he could give.

"Oh, that's quite alright," Becky shook her head dismissively, "I like to think of it that I took away some of the hurt that Betty would have had."

Dean hated to press on, but knew he should, "So what else do you remember?"

"As I was saying," Becky continued, "I spent much of the late forties at the Walsh House, as it came to be called, and it didn't take long to figure out that Elliot wanted more than to just show Betty who was boss."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, glancing sideways at Sam who continued to write.

"Along with the fifties, the use of drugs also came," Dean was surprised at the ease in which the elder lady was able to relay events of the past, "Elliot used many of these on Betty to try and control her more, and manipulate the way the children were raised. He had a dream, you see. Ten children and a multimillion dollar company going down the drain."

"Wait a minute," Dean interrupted, "I thought that his company was making lots of money? That he was a big shot in the whole thing."

"Oh he was," Becky nodded, "But he got careless. Lost money and used even more money that he didn't have to loose. So he figured if he could work his kids into to the company, he could save money."

"But the kids couldn't have been that old," Dean pointed out.

"By the time he got desperate in 1956 the youngest were seven year old twins. I remember going by there one day and he had them reading a manual about the way some of the machines at the factory worked," Becky smiled sadly, "That's about when Betty started to get sick. Everyone assumed it to be pneumonia but I knew otherwise. I could tell when I talked to Betty that Elliot had stripped her of everything she was and everything she could be. When she went into the hospital that winter I would visit her often. She was getting better too; being away from Elliot, but she never stopped worrying about the children, and I think that's why she decided to go back before she was fully better."

"And that's when things started getting bad," Sam's voice was soft.

"Yes," Becky agreed, "It was kept out of the public's eyes, however, and most thought just the opposite was happening; that after the heath scare with Betty, Elliot finally smartened up. But I knew otherwise. When I went there, Betty was… broken. She no longer made any decisions, or helped the children and scarcely held conversations longer than three or four minutes. It was the evening of June the first 1957 that I'll never forget."

"The night the police found them," Dean recalled.

"Yes," Becky sipped at some of the lemonade that she'd poured, "I'd been trying to get a hold of Betty for two days, and nobody had seen or heard from any of them in just as long. Even the mill was calling about the absent Elliot. I called the police when I found their door locked, and it was just a while later that I found out the news."

"I'm so sorry," again Sam spoke the words that could do so little.

Becky took a deep breath, "Yes, but that was a while ago I suppose. I found out a month later that my name was put in for the deed of the house. Quite a shock I must tell you, but I wanted nothing to do with the house and sold it almost immediately. I still have all the papers that went with it; the owners wanted nothing but the deed."

"Ma'am, do you still have those papers?" Sam asked; Dean's turn to give a glare to his brother.

"It's Becky, please," Becky spoke, getting up; Dean and Sam immediately getting up as well, to help her, "And yes, I do still have them."

The Winchester's watched as the elder lady walked over to a small desk which sat in the far corner. She opened a drawer and pulled out a folder, turned around and handed it to Dean.

"Here you are," she smiled, "You can keep it; it's just been collecting dust around this old place."

"Seriously?" Dean eyed the thick folder that looked to be older than anything he'd read.

"Yes, of course," Becky nodded, "Now, is there anything else I can do for you boys?"

"No," Sam shook his head, "I think we have enough."

Becky shook Dean and Sam's hand, "Good luck with your…paper."

Again Sam caught the small wink, and knew right away that this lady was much smarter than many people thought her to be. With the folder in hand, Dean lead the way to the front of the pristine house; his brother and Becky Rose in tow. Opening the door, he gave one last thanks to the elder lady.

"We really appreciate this," Dean's charming smile was not unnoticed, "This will really help us with our paper."

"You're very kind to say so Mr. Young," her eyes twinkled, "And let me thank you, in return. So many memories of those times which were so long ago. I remember for the years to come after the incident I took refuge from it all in my favorite band."

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, "And what was that Becky?"

Becky gave a knowing look to Dean, a small smirk pulling at the side of her aging mouth, "I believe you're familiar with AC/DC?"

Dean's mouth opened in shock, and Sam, completely clueless lead his brother out the door.

"Thank you again Miss. Rose," Sam waved to the elder lady as they made their way down the steps of the porch.

Dean stopped at the bottom and shook his head. The impact of the last words that Becky spoke gave him more respect for her story than he ever thought imaginable. He had no doubt in his mind that Sam had no idea what she meant on the comment and for that, the older brother knew, he'd have to explain.

"Ok, what was that about?" Dean was right as Sam spoke up, standing by the black 1967 Impala.

"Our names," Dean smiled, "Dean Young and Sam Williams."

"Yeah," contrary to their morning conversation, it was Sam's turn to be the completely clueless one in the conversation of choice.

"Dude, I totally haven't done my job in teaching you classic rock," Dean smirked, "Malcolm Young was the guitarist and Cliff Williams was the bassist in AC/DC. That lady knew we were playing her right from the beginning."

Sam let out a laugh as he got in the car, "Oh yes Dean, people that age can barely remember their age let alone things that happened fifty years ago."

"Shut up," Dean grinned, starting his less than quiet car up.

Wordlessly Dean decided for the two of them to stop at a small diner he'd noticed on the way in for something to eat. It was past lunch hour and still a few hours before the supper crowd would arrive, and so it was easy to find a parking space.

"Did we run into a time portal?" Dean muttered as they walked into the diner; fifties music floating through the atmosphere.

Sam grinned and shoved Dean in the side. An older couple sat off in the distance, a family with what looked like young twins girls sat in a booth near the door and three people sat at the laminated counter top on bright red cushion stools. Dean lead the way to a private booth near a large window where each brother sat on either side.

"You brought that with you?" Dean asked, eying the folder in Sam's hand.

"Yeah," Sam adjusted himself in the vinyl seat, "I thought we could look it over while we had something to eat."

"Whatever man, but by the sounds of it that place is nothing more than a giant bad luck charm," Dean shook his head dismissively, "And you promised we'd highjack our way out of here if we turned up nothing."

"I know, I know," Sam sighed, "But I just want to look at it."

Dean rolled his eyes just as a small, plump lady wearing a white dress and white and red checkered apron approached their table.

"Hi there Darlings," she gave them both a wide smile, "My name is Mary; welcome to Debbie's Diner. Here are some menus for you both; our special today is grill cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Can I start you both off with a nice cup of coffee?"

"Please," Dean smiled gratefully, accepting both the steaming cup of coffee and the menu.

"Thank you," Sam, as well, took the coffee and menu, and waited until Mary left before taking the folder out and opening it up.

Dean looked through the menu while Sam scoured the papers. There were many of them; most documenting the building of the house, permits and other legal documents from over a century ago. The younger brother saw nothing interesting at face value, but figured, if nothing else, it would be an interesting read one night when he was bored. He was just about to put the folder away and join his brother in picking out something to eat when a smaller paper slid out from the stack.

It contained many names; the mayor of Surrgate at that time, the housing inspector, the plumbing and electrical experts and, lastly, the contractor. The man that actually designed and built the house. To each name a small few comments were written by, Sam guessed, Adam Walsh. It was at the last name; the contractor and builder that Sam froze.

"Sam?" Dean looked up and saw his brother's stunned and almost fearful look, "Yo Sam; you ok?"

"Dean, I think I found something with the Walsh House," Sam's voice came out in barely a whisper.

"What?" Dean was about to make a smart ass comment, but the look on Sam's face was anything but joke worthy.

"Here," Sam handed the small paper to Dean, "The last name."

Dean looked at it for only a moment before a small 'Oh my God' escaped his lips. Simultaneously the Winchester brothers got up from their seat at Debbie's Diner. Dean threw a twenty on the table as Sam collected the rest of the papers from the folder and, without looking back, followed his brother's quick paced trek back to the car.

Any normal person who saw the paper still clutched in Dean Winchester's hand would have thought nothing of the names or the notes written on it so long ago. They would have tossed it aside as a useless scrap piece of paper, or, perhaps, garbage. The hunters knew better. When Sam looked down and saw the name of the contractor as being one Alex Colt, he knew something familiar rung out in the name. The added notes written delicately beside the names gave way his suspicions to truths;

_Alex Colt: son of Samuel Colt; former local blacksmith._

_...to be continued..._


	4. Inside the House

_disclaimer: i'm too poor to own anything this cool_

_a/n: so chapter four has now arrived. a good thing for no particular reason other than you finally get to 'see' the walsh house. it may seem kind of confusing, though back a while ago when i had no life (err-- less of one than i have now), i made a complete map of the walsh house. so every room that dean mentions, every hallway that he walks down, and every set of stairs he climbs all is there for a reason. ok, so again i was a jerk and left the end of this on a cliffhanger-- slightly worse than the last one. enjoy!_

* * *

"Sam, bad idea," Dean stated bluntly, his hands still clutched around the steering wheel.

"We tried to get a hold of Bobby, and he didn't answer," Sam rationalized, "It's fair game now."

"You know _I__'__m_ the one that's supposed to go in guns blazing, not you," Dean argued, "What's up with you lately Sammy?"

Sam remained silent and looked out the window. They were parked in front of the infamous Walsh House, and aside from the temporarily abandoned town construction trucks it looked just like the pictures. An overgrown hedge nearly six feet high went around three quarters of the house, leaving the front open to the view of the hand laid brick house; towering at three stories with a massive wraparound porch. Ivy and other overgrown plants weeded their way through the construction of the house, and Sam could see from there that several of the windows were broken. Two tall, dead trees stood ominously on either side of the broken up cement path leading to the front of the house.

"Sam," this time Dean followed his words with a light hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam turned around; an odd expression on his face, "Dean, you saw the name. Samuel Colt; the same guy that made the only weapon known to kill the demon."

"We don't even know if it's the same guy," Dean rationalized, "And like you said, we can't get a hold of Bobby, so there's no way to find out."

"Yeah, because there were _so many _Samuel Colt's around in the early eighteen hundreds," Sam spoke sarcastically.

"Lets just go grab something to eat," Dean said after a moment, "Then we'll see if we can get a hold of Bobby. I just-- have a bad feeling about this place Sam."

Sam suddenly turned towards Dean, a look of pure rebellious determination that Dean had never seen before plastered on his face, "No."

Before Dean could make a move or even a reply, Sam opened up the door and got out; slamming it shut behind him. The shock of his brothers actions only lasted less than a second, but in that small amount of time, Sam had managed to get to the cobblestone walkway. Dean quickly grabbed the rock salt filled pistol that he kept in the glove compartment, turned off the engine and left after Sam. The determination his brother had was evident as by the time Dean rounded the car, Sam was already standing tentatively in front of the porch.

"Sam!" Dean yelled harshly, "Hold the hell up!"

Sam took a quick glance back before walking up the three steps.

"Or keep going," Dean muttered jogging the rest of the way to catch up, "Dude, you got a listening problem or something?"

"Sorry," Sam's words came out heartless as he stared at the old screen door.

"Well if your sorry, then get your ass back to the car until we know more about this place," Dean insisted.

Sam laughed and turned to face Dean, "Man, we know the last hundred years worth of history on this place. There really isn't much more to find out Dean."

"Sam come on," Dean placed a hand on Sam's arm, ready to pull him off down the stairs and back to the waiting car.

Sam paused a moment before speaking calmly and threateningly, "Dean, you know that if you take me back I can easily just leave."

"Are you threatening me?" Dean, too, had a sense of laced anger in his voice.

"No, but I can," Sam stated, "Now lets just check it out for a few minutes."

Without waiting for an answer, Sam pulled opened the screen door, and placed his hand on the old brass doorknob, turning it slightly. The fact that the door was unlocked and easily opened set off a small warning bell inside the older brother, though failed to faze Sam as he walked less than cautiously into the house.

Dean followed Sam into the large entrance hall and looked around. A large staircase leading to the second floor sat just in front of them; open doorways leading to unknown places on either side. The grime which sat thick on the windows let little light in and the dust which had accumulated over the abandoned decades had hardly been disturbed by the demolition crew. Dean reached into his pocket and grabbed the flashlight which he always had on him. With a small click, the beam of light shot out, and he cast it around at the peeling pant on the walls, and the rotting wood on the stairway and floorboards.

"Lets split up," Sam spoke quietly, taking out his own flashlight.

Dean knew that arguing would be futile at that point so wordlessly nodded his approval, and walked cautiously to the right; vaguely aware of his brother heading up the creaking stairs. Dean's first, unaware, mistake was to assume that his brother had a weapon of his own on him; a mistake that, sooner than he'd want to know, would come into play. The room which he walked in to was what formally was a dining hall, and more recently the information room of the once was museum. A long, built in counter sat against the far side and a few old picture of the house still hung on the wall behind it. There were more windows in this room than in the main hall, and so Dean found he didn't need his flashlight as he walked around.

Construction had moved most of the furniture out of the old house, but it was the crystal chandelier that hung down nearly two feet that gave Dean the impression that when the Walsh family lived in the place, this was where the family ate. There was certainly enough room in the medium sized area to hold a table large enough for twelve people, and Dean could almost envision it as he stood on the hand placed planks of wood. The walls were covered in pealing, flowered wallpaper that was splashed with now pale reds and violets. Another door lead off to the right and Dean followed it into a slightly smaller room that was quite obviously a kitchen.

A large gapping hole was in the wall where Dean figured an old, antique stove must have sat before, and laminated counters bordered the wall everywhere else. An old fridge sat at the far end corner which looked as if it hadn't been used in ages; the door ripped off to prevent young children from climbing in. A crate sat on the floor of dust, and Dean was just making his way to a door that was at the end of the room when he heard a noise. The older brother paused in the middle of the long, quiet kitchen and waited.

It came again; a loud 'thump' coming from above him.

"Sam!" Dean yelled; hearing his voice echoing deafeningly off the walls.

The effort was useless as he knew his voice would barely carry into the dining room, never mind wherever Sam happened to be. His heart beat quickening, Dean made his way out of the kitchen and back through the dining area. The small flashlight was immediately turned on, and Dean panned around the dark room; his ears listening for any sign of his brother. Again, within moments of his waiting a loud 'thump' echoed throughout. Though this time Dean wasn't sure whether it came from upstairs, or somewhere else in the house.

"_Sammy!_" Dean moved in a slow circle, waiting and listening intently for a reply, "_Sammy, answer me!_"

No reply came except for another sudden 'thump', causing Dean to jump. An idea came to the elder Winchester and he took out his phone; unpleasant memories from the evening before washing through his head as he scrolled down to 'Sam'. This time he didn't hesitate at all before pressing the green dial button, and only waited two rings before the other end was picked up.

"_Whoa_--" Dean's first reaction was to hold the phone away from his head as loud static came through; that idea quickly left though, as the whereabouts of his brother came into play, "Sam? Hey Sam are you there?"

"…Dean…" the static was thick, but Sam's voice crackled through.

"Sammy, where the hell are you?" Dean asked, his eyes still flashing around the dark room he was in.

The voice was undeniably Sam's, "…Dean… up… can you hear…"

"Sam!" Dean found himself shouting, "Sam, where are you?! Are you ok?!"

"…Dean…" the next words out caused Dean's blood to run ice cold, "… help."

"_Sam!_" Dean screamed out.

But it was no use. The hollow click sounded the end of the conversation and Dean stared at the ominous stairway. The word 'up' was all that Dean needed to hear to give him the clue that Sam was upstairs, and the word 'help' was all that he needed to bolt up them two at a time; the light bobbing all around. The idea of fear coming from anything other than his brothers well being never occurred to Dean, so when he got to the top of the stairs and was faced with pure darkness, he was caught off guard. His flashlight seemed to do little in the dark thickness that blanketed around him like a cold whisper. In front of him was a wall from the hallway, and to his right and left a seemingly endless, door less passage.

"Sam…" Dean wished his voice was louder as he looked both to his right and left; not sure which direction to go; everything was quiet.

Not surprisingly Dean heard no answer to his feeble call, and he decided on walking slowly to the left. After a few feet he found a door to his left made of solid oak and peeling varnish. The handle turned and with a loud creak the door opened. The flashlight panned around the medium sized room and Dean saw nothing except more dust and a discarded box laying on the floor. His heart beat quickening, Dean continued to the end of the hall where it broke off, again, to the right and left.

"It's like a fricken maze," Dean spoke aloud.

Dean saw a door almost immediately down the hall to his left, so again turned that way and followed the creaking floor to it; locked. His brother instincts told him that Sam wasn't inside the looked room, and so with little thought to it, Dean continued along; his flashing bouncing from the walls which held memories in the form of old pictures. Some were of an older man and woman, but most depicted that of children growing up. Dean followed the pictures to the end of that side of the hall, where it turned at a sharp ninety degree angle to the left again. Two doors were visible with his flashlight on the right hand side, and Dean was just about to, again, start the tedious job of searching rooms when he heard it again.

'Thump'.

This time it was followed by a low moan that gave indication that he was at least on the right floor of the massive house.

"Sammy!?" Dean's voice rung out and bounced across the walls.

The older brother ran straight ahead, and made a sharp left; completing three quarters of the circle that was the second floor.

"Sam?" Dean shone the flashlight around, and almost missed it.

The beam was skinny, but went far; lighting up something in a crumpled heap at the far end of the long hall. With an escaped '_oh God_', Dean covered the distance in seconds; vaguely aware that he passed a turnoff to his left; making the figure eight pattern in the halls even more of a confirmation to a mazelike atmosphere.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted out as he got to his brother; laying on the ground, his back to Dean, "Sammy, c'mon."

Briefly holding his flashlight clenched between his teeth, Dean brought his hands down to roll Sam over carefully; fearful of what he'd see. The body turned; Sam's shirt adorned chest falling sideways against Dean's crouched body, and the older brother cradled Sam's head in one hand, turning it to face him.

_...to be continued..._


End file.
